Rose’s chest rose and fell. There was fury in his eyes. Not fury at her. Furyforher. In that moment, she felt the steel of hisconviction, the weight of his belief where hers faltered and stole the strength from her.
“You’re certainly right about the ‘impossible’ part,” she muttered, the fight draining from her, leaving only her pounding heart and the awareness of how near they stood, how utterly alone. She tore her gaze from his, searching for escape, only to take in their surroundings.
Bookshelves lined paneled walls. A great mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface clear of clutter. The scent of ink and leather hung thick in the air. She blinked.
“This…this is Harlowe’s office.”
There was a short pause as he appeared to take in her words. “So it is.” He glanced at her, a quirk on his lips that stuttered her pulse. “Secure the door. Quickly. We may as well make use of the opportunity.”
“Yes. Of course,” she whispered, hurrying to do as he bid. The realization that she didn’t even hesitate chilled her skin.
It took him but a minute to find the safe and have it open. Just as quickly, he shut it. “Nothing,” he told her. “Come. We’ve been alone much too long, if you are to jilt me without ruining yourself.”
Rose winced, wishing the solution would present itself by conjuring. But no genie lurked about to grant such wishes.
Thirty-Five
The rest of the evening was barely tolerable. Rose wasn’t sure how she’d managed it. In fact, she hadn’t, having spent more time in the retiring room fanning her face that was much too hot on such a cold night. So much time, her sister had searched her out and demanded to know if Emerson had hurt her. Hurt her?No,if that kiss was any inclination.He’d rattled her beyond anything reasonable. She couldn’t leave the Harlowes’ soiree soon enough.
Of course, she’d been stuck when Sebastian cornered her.
“What is this notion of you going to the docks?” he demanded.
“Sebastian, lower your voice. I am a widow of independent means. And you will not talk to me as if I am a child,” she hissed hotly.
Her stoic brother snapped his mouth shut, breathed in through his nose, and let it out slowly. “Rose, the docks are a dangerous place. It’s also been bandied about that you were nearly accosted by a man who goes by the ridiculous name of Billy the Buster.”
Oh, dear. He’d learned of her jaunt to Whitmore’s Warehouse. She patted his chest. “I was perfectly safe, Seb. Come, we must dance.” It was the best distraction she had at hand, and really, how could he say no? She took his arm. He was much too proper to make a scene.
He did narrow his gaze on her, then shook his head. “You seem to be changing before my eyes. Very well, as my wife seems to have—who the devil is she dancing with?”
Rose glanced across the room and bit back a grin as Sebastian led her to the floor. “Um, that is Mr. Whitmore, of Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse,” she informed him.
The music picked up for a lively country dance that kept further conversation at bay. She had no desire explaining anything to him regarding her current life. He was right about one thing—she was changing. To what degree remained to be seen.
Explaining “Billy” to him was out of the question. Just the memory of it gave her the shivers. Still, despite that unfortunate run-in, Adventurous Rose had risen to the occasion in spectacular glory. And that she was quite proud of.
Come midnight, Rose found herself in the dark corner of Emerson’s carriage, wondering how she’d gotten there as it appeared she was moving about in a fog. Her feet ached, in fact her whole body ached. The cobblestones jostling her about didn’t help matters. Lamplit shadows sliced through the windows and across the harsh angles of Emerson’s unreadable face.
It resembled nothing of the intensity he’d unleashed on her in Harlowe’s office. Her lips still tingled from his kiss that had her nearly slipping into a puddle at his feet.
Rose folded her gloved hands tightly in her lap, trying desperately not to let the wordirreplaceableecho in her chest. Foolish word. Dangerous word. Andmarriage—
“Anything odd regarding Collier and Gorman?” Emerson directed to Ben, his tone clipped and stern, piercing the darkness.
Ben’s brows rose, and his eyes shot to her. “I did not realize we were speaking so freely before Lady Stanford.”
Indignation whipped through her. “If you mean to whisper secrets over my head, sir, you may as well dismiss me altogether.” She winced at her tone, sharper than she’d intended. After a long pause, she sighed. “Since my hearing is already compromised, perhaps you should answer your brother.”
Surprise fleeted Emerson’s face that shifted into a quick grin. It softened his hardened features, devastating her heart.
Ben’s eyes flicked between her and Emerson. “All right,” he said slowly. “Considering last month Gorman could barely pay his wine account, I find it peculiar that he’s been throwing coin about as though he’s landed a goose that lays golden eggs.”
Emerson leaned back, taking up most of the bench beside her, his heat warming her from shoulder to ankle. “That is odd. You think he may have pegged another to blackmail?Wecertainly haven’t given in to any demands.”
“Ifhe’s the one sending you those notes,” Ben pointed out.
“Yes. If.” Emerson drummed his fingers on his knee. “What about Collier or Lambert? Anything there?”
